


it's always darkest before the dawn

by akiko



Series: PacificTale [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Blood, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7601803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akiko/pseuds/akiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Metta needed to be comforted, and the one time he couldn't be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's always darkest before the dawn

**Author's Note:**

> title from [_Shake It Out_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6VRPldFRCw) by Florence + The Machine
> 
> this is based on my undertale pr au, [pacifictale](http://akibouken.tumblr.com/tagged/pacifictale). **mtt** is filipino/japanese, **blooky** is filipinx with a mix, **mad dummy** and **ruins dummy (bitty)** are filipinx, **alphys** is african-american, **papyrus** and **sans** are russian/italian, and **undyne** is thai.
> 
> this thing has been sitting on my docs for way too long, and was actually written/conceived way before Tease Poker, herpderp
> 
> many thanks and hugs to Quinn ([SilverCinnamon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverCinnamon) / [councilofstars](http://councilofstars.tumblr.com/)) for beta-ing this thing! + letting me toss around pftale ideas with 'em~
> 
> credits and thanks to Tails ([maranhig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maranhig) / [pistengyawa](http://haykatalaka.co.vu/)) for helpin' with headcanons and character races!~

**i.**

 

_Blooky, do you like your new headphones?_

A small smile. 

_As soon as I saw them I thought of you!_

They were probably thinking you shouldn’t have bought it for them, but you would have to insist. 

_Look, it’s got little raindrops on them! Isn’t it cute?_

You knew how much they loved the rain. The headphones were in their favorite shade of acid-blue too. You were so sure they would like it. 

_So do you like it?_

They opened their mouth to speak. But there were no words. 

_Blooky...?_

You blink and they weren’t there anymore. You close your eyes for just that one second- _that one millisecond_ \- but they were just. Gone. 

Something crumbled from behind you, and you turn around -

A kaiju stared back at you.

You opened your mouth to scream, to call for help, to make _some sort of noise_ \- but couldn’t. Your heart thunders in your ears as the kaiju crashes through the building in front of you, its eyes locking right onto you. Why couldn’t your feet move? Why couldn’t your voice work? Why isn’t Blooky here anymore?

You struggle against your own body but the kaiju just draws closer and -

You jolt, breath stuck in your throat. 

Cold, wet, warm, soft, kaiju-free. Wait, where are you? 

Your fingers clutch at the blanket wrapped around your legs and waist. Must’ve been from when you were thrashing around in your sleep. 

The sweat on your back and on your chest warms up on your skin, making your shirt stick. Ugh. You grimace, but choose to ignore it. You turn your head to the side, getting your bearings.

Oh, that’s right. You’re in some motel with Mads. Who isn’t here right now. They must’ve gone out and gotten something to eat. Or something. 

You look over at your suitcase on the other side of the bed. Inside, a carefully wrapped blue present with a cute little bow was sitting comfortably between your clothes. Unopened.

You pat down the bedside table and pick up your phone. Alphys had messaged you on Tumblr. 

You were planning on going back to stay with her for a bit, again (even though you had just been there for a couple of weeks), so maybe you should just go back to sleep.

You shiver at the thought. No sleep for you, then.

Carefully, you untangle yourself from the blankets and fling it messily to the side of the bed. It’s too warm for a blanket anyway. You check Alphys’ message.

 **mewmewkissescuties**  
_I”M GONNA MAEK A JAEGER_

You frown. A... jay...ger?

Alphys is a genius and her inventions are brilliant, but you aren’t so sure you’re ready for a scientific spiel right now. 

With a little reluctance, you type.

 **killerlegbot**  
_What’s a ‘jaeger’?_

 

* * *

  

**ii.**

 

After dinner, you and Blooky used to lie on your backs on the ground in front of the house, a _banig_ between you and the ground, the _buri_ of the mat cool against your back. The both of you would spend hours there, spacing out as you looked at the stars. Mads and Bitty would join too.

It was a family tradition.

Warm. Cool. Vast. Deep. 

Moments like those let you forget. Let you keep forgetting.

You grip the prettily-wrapped gift box in your hands, denting the sides. But it is no less pretty.

Your dream- no, your _nightmare_ claws at the edges of your thoughts, screams echoing in your ears as the crumbling of rocks trickle down your spine.

_Why couldn’t you forget this?_

You carefully set the now-slightly-worn present on your bedside table before you deform its packaging beyond repair. You trudge to your door, letting the blanket slip off your slumped form.

There’s nobody out in the hallway. Well, what did you expect at this hour?

You start walking.

It was a fairly short walk, because soon you find yourself stopping in front of a door. Without thinking too much about it, you knock.

The occupant opens up after your second attempt. You must’ve woken them.

“ _Ay_ , _letse._  D’you know what _time_ it is?” Mads demands grumpily, teeth bared in a snarl.

You chuckle, hollowly. “Time to feel _absolutely beautiful_.” Your not-smile wavers slightly, and you avert your eyes, lowering your voice a bit, “Or to feel like garbage.” You glance back at your cousin. “Your choice, dear.”

Mads is silent for a while, still scowling up at you. Before, finally, they sigh, and step to the side.

Later, you feel guilty about making Mads unable to fall back asleep too, but you brush it off.

You and Mads lie down on the floor of their room, their blanket against your backs, protecting you both against the cold. You both lie there and stare at the ceiling, imagining a limitless sky of deep velvet and twinkling lights, imagining two other people at your sides.

 

* * *

 

**iii.**

 

Blooky always “scolded” you - in their own worried, “oh no... I don’t think you should... be doing that...” way - about your stress-eating habit whenever you got sad. It was probably unhealthy of you to shove your problems and feelings in a bottle and avoid them until they eventually burst out and crashed over you like a tsunami. 

You always playfully waved it off, though. Sure, a certain cousin would be all _mads_ about it (you shake your head; that one was a bit of a stretch, cut that out in post-production) but once you were all a famous band, you wouldn’t have to worry about food again anyway.

You always said that. They always believed you.

...Would they have forgiven you? Would everything have gone back to how it was before, had you been able to meet up with them that fateful day in Manila. 

Your fingers tighten around the headphones.

The nightmares had been coming back almost nightly now, and you aren’t sure if it was because of the guilt or the stress. You’d started wearing the headphones around your neck, even during classes. It was oddly calming. 

But right now, it wasn’t enough. Right now you’re hungry and tired and missing Blooky and you just need food, really. 

Will you be kicked out of the academy for sneaking into the kitchens? Papyrus and Undyne did it all the time.

Well. Then again, they helped with the cooking - they didn’t sneak into the refrigerators in the middle of the night to stress-eat.

But you won’t take a lot, you’ll only take a little, just a couple servings of whatever you could find, like whatever that nice smell of cooking is coming from -

Oh shit, you forgot about Papyrus!

Not that you would actually forget about Papyrus like that, how could you, of course not, no; you forgot that the sweet cinnamon roll slept much later than everyone else and liked to cook spaghetti at around this time of night (but still managed to, somehow, wake up bright and early and chipper as always, god, he’s amazing), and oh dear gods, your hair's a mess and you don’t have any makeup on let alone _concealer -_

 _Okay, calm down, Metta, calm down. Just act confident. Confidence is your best accessory._  

You take a deep breath, and straighten up, combing your fingers through your hair to try and bring it some semblance of control.

You slip into the room, leaning against the wall with a smile, warmth happily flooding in your chest and through your cheeks at the sight of him.

“Why, hello there, Papy, darling,” you purr, jutting your hip out a bit more and propping your hand on it. “Care to join me for a little midnight snack?”

Papyrus glances over, his brown eyes wide with surprise, but still grinning a wide, welcoming smile, all teeth and sunshine. He has the ever-present worn red scarf and the same white t-shirt and board shorts he wore that day (protected by an apron now, of course), so he must not have gone to bed at all - that, or he went to sleep in the same clothes. What a dork; he’s so cute.

“Oh! Metta! Good evening! Funny you should say that, actually! I’m making some of my special Late-Night Spaghetti right now! Nyehehe!” 

Your smile widens and you walk towards him. It was always a delight to taste Papyrus’ cooking. With it being just the two of you, you could even pretend that he made it just for you. Oh, be still, your little heart.

“That sounds absolutely lovely. Mind if I have a taste?” You press your finger against your lips and wink.

“Hmmmmmmmmm.” Papyrus taps a finger on his chin as he stares up at the ceiling, thoughtfully. He ‘nyehs,’ closing his eyes and giving a dramatic shrug as he casually gestures with his wrist. “Oh, why not. I, the Great Papyrus, am kind and generous enough to let you sample my sauce!”

You giggle, trying to be cute. You hoped it was working. “How delightful! I’m honored, my dear.” Giving a half-bow, you saunter closer and lean over his shoulder, pressing your chest against his arm as you peer into the sauce he’s mixing. You hope he doesn’t feel your heart pounding.

He hands you a spoon with a small bow of his head, and you daintily take it with your pinky raised, “Why, thank you, darling, you’re such a gentleman.”

“Of course I am!” He laughs that laugh of his again and you avert your eyes and bite your lip to suppress the urge to kiss him.

The sauce tastes a little too spicy for your tastes, but it was still quite good.

“Mmm. Delicious as always, darling,” you smile, licking some excess sauce from your lips. 

A dark blush spreads high on his cheekbones and oh he looked so cute when he’s all flustered like this. You could kiss him. You could.

But you won’t.

“I prefer it sweeter, though. But I don’t think there could be a sauce to rival your sweetness,” you sigh as if greatly burdened by this, pressing the back of your hand against your forehead to feign swooning. 

“That _is_ quite a shame. But I suppose we could make do with second best,” he chuckles, nudging playfully at you with his shoulder. You giggle in response and nudge him back, peering up at him from beneath your lashes. “Your homeland’s sauce is sweet, isn’t it?” 

You blink, a bit surprised that he mentioned it, but you supposed it was just like him to remember such a thing. “Oh. Well, yes, it is, actually. And we’re not stingy with the sauce like you are,” you nudge him again, a teasing grin on your face. 

He chuckles, and puffs his chest out, readying himself for some playful bantering about sauces and pasta. 

Needless to say, your unofficial date went quite well. All thoughts of cousins-that-weren’t-there were shoved to the back of your mind as you basked in this bit of happiness in the midst of the apocalypse.

 

* * *

 

**iv.**

 

You smile at Blooky, and they smile back, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’ve done something right by your cousin.

There’s something wet in your mouth. Copper and warmth. You touch your lips and look down. Blooky coughs.

You look up at your cousin just as a wave of blood erupts from their mouth.

You scream. You scream and you scream and you scream but you can’t hear anything except Blooky coughing, Blooky trying to speak, Blooky saying, “Help -” 

You jolt and see a metal ceiling.

Your mouth is open but you’re not screaming. You’re panting for breath and your heart is hammering against your ribcage, pulsing in your ears. You wonder, vaguely, if anyone else can hear it too. 

You pat your bedside table, looking for your anchor - there! 

Your hands clutch at the headphones, its wire carefully wound around it, almost like a necklace (or a noose), and you press it against your chest, against the insistent beating of your heart. 

You couldn’t breathe.

You almost fall flat on your face in front of your door. You click your tongue, irritated, and kick away the blanket from around your foot, then close the door.

There weren’t many people awake at this time of night, which you’re grateful for. You can’t remember if you’ve ever screamed awake during your stay in the academy yet, but you’re pretty sure you haven’t. Pretty sure.

Your fingers cling to the headphones’ ear pads, thumb absentmindedly stroking the fabric, which squeaks lightly against the pressure. You’re not sure where you’re going, but you just hope it’s someplace with no people.

It had worked out well for you last time; Papyrus was such a sweetheart. You weren’t going to test your luck a second time, though. 

You stop when you notice you’ve reached the combat room. It looks so eerie in the dark. It doesn’t stink of sweat unlike in the mornings, thankfully. What time is it, anyway? ...Who cares.

You step inside, making a beeline for one of the boxing bags still hanging in a corner of the room. Carefully, you set aside the headphones on a nearby bench, before standing in front of the bag, sizing it up. 

You punch the bag. 

The impact stings your knuckles and you focus on that sting, that pain, and pivot to throw another punch with your other hand. It stings. It hurts. It hurts so much. 

You keep punching, biting down on your lip to keep yourself from screaming. A sob manages to escape past your teeth and you bite harder, punch harder, dig your nails in your palm and all you can feel is physical pain.

But your heart still hurts. It’s getting harder to breathe. 

You aim another punch. 

Something stops you. But it wasn’t the bag. Some force clamping down around your wrist stops you from hitting the bag, and you’re forced to look up despite the tears and snot running down your face. 

You startle. It’s Undyne. 

“Geez, Metta, what were you thinking?” she grouses, her brows pinched in disapproval. 

You stare at her for a moment too long, your mind a bit hazy from the trance-like state you’d been in. 

You force a smile. You hope it doesn’t look as lopsided as it feels. “Sorry, darling. I couldn’t find the tape,” you chuckle and stick your tongue out in a ‘silly me’ gesture, trying to play it off.

Undyne just stares at you. You swallow, and pull up the corners of your not-smile again. You open your mouth to say something - you’re not sure what - but then Undyne saves you the effort: she pulls you over to sit beside the headphones on the bench, then walks off to another corner of the room. 

Of course she knows where the boxing tape is, even in the dark.

You feel like weight of your exhaustion bear down on you again. Like it was chastising you for forgetting about it, and making itself known tenfold as punishment. You want to slump to the floor. Want to just lie down and feel like garbage. Because you are garbage. Just a tiny speck in the vastness of beauty that encompasses the universe. 

A tiny speck that couldn’t even -

You look down at the sound of tearing - oh, it’s just tape. Undyne is taping your hands. The blood on your palms seem to have been wiped off too. 

You still feel drained, still feel heavy and tired, but you lift your other hand and help the older girl with the tape. You stay silent.

When the two of you finish with both of your hands, Undyne stands up and rummages around again. You keep your eyes on the ground. You should probably thank her for the tape, but you don’t really feel like punching anything anymore.

Well. That was a lie. A small part of you still wants to, but the rest of you just wanted to fall back-first onto this bench and imagine up the galaxy. 

Something is shoved in front of your face and you startle again, quickly leaning backwards away from the thing.

Undyne is handing you a pair of boxing gloves. You stare at her, then back at the gloves.

“Well, come on, punk, we ain’t got all night,” she chuckles, though there’s no humor in her laugh.

Wordlessly, you take the gloves and slip them on.

“Alright, punk,” Undyne positions herself behind the punching bag, gripping the sides to hold it still, “gimme your best shot!” 

Her grin is wide and sharp, and through the darkness, you focus on the red of her hair and the red of the bag and the red of your gloves - and punch.

 

* * *

 

**v.**

 

You’d promised them you’d never leave. But you left.

You’d promised them you’d keep in touch. But you went silent. 

So you’d promised them you’d fight. 

...But you can’t. 

You can’t fight for them. 

You couldn’t fight for them. 

You couldn’t save them. And now you couldn’t fight for them. 

You couldn’t. You can’t. 

You can’t you can’t you can’t you can’t you can’t - 

Ow. 

You suck in a breath, and slowly uncurl your fingers. Your scalp tingles, as if sighing in relief at the lack of pull and pain. You press your fingers against your face, against your brow, your eye, your cheek, your teeth. You stop yourself from pressing harder. 

You curl up tighter into yourself, pulling your knees up against the top of your bowed head as your fingers fall around your neck and clutch at the headphones. 

( _You couldn’t save them._ ) 

You hated feeling like this. 

“‘Sup, MTT.” 

You don’t look up. “I’m sorry, Sans, darling, but. Not now.” 

He doesn’t listen, as always, and sits down beside you. As always. 

You hear something rustling - paper? You repress the urge to sigh. It was probably another joke or prank, you think bitterly, though the more reasonable part of your mind knows it would be something comforting, as he was wont to do. 

How did he always find you at your lowest? (How would he ever love someone like you -) 

You look up, deadpan and wary -

He hands you a burger. 

You stare at it, eyes blankly processing the greasy food in his hand. You glance at the paper bag in his hand - it has the name _Grillby’s_ on it. You turn to Sans, blinking with surprise. “This... doesn’t look like it came from the kitchens.” 

He just shrugs, chuckling through his teeth. 

He doesn’t really like driving all that much, but whenever he does he goes to Grillby’s. You weren’t sure how long you’ve been sitting here in the middle of the hallway where anyone could see you oh gods (though, they probably thought you were just being overdramatic), but you were pretty sure it would be just around the same amount of time it took to drive to Grillby’s and back. 

Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe he was already there when he bought this. Maybe these are his leftovers. 

Still. It was... sweet.

Somehow, you manage a small smile. “...Thank you, Sans.” 

You take the proffered burger and carefully unwrap it. God, you missed fast food. Grillby really knew how to cook a good burger. The first bite was always like heaven. 

At some point, Sans took out a ketchup packet and started drinking from it. You refrain from commenting, too busy basking in the taste of your own burger.

You both dine in a comfortable silence, though your own mind was still festering in the cesspool of negativity, you feel somewhat... better, now. Somewhat.

After a few moments, Sans speaks up. “Y’know. Trust is pretty important in Drifting.”

You scowl. “I’ve noticed,” you grumble, the thought of Drifting leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. You rewrap the burger, deciding to save the rest for later. You wouldn’t want to tarnish it with these sour emotions. 

“So, try Drifting with someone you trust, then,” he continues, that ever-present grin still plastered on his face. 

You sigh, and rub at the pad of the headphones. “Mads is set to co-pilot with Undyne. Most probably.”

“Surely your cousin can’t be the only person you trust here?” Sans prods gently, still smiling.

You stare at him, finally catching on to what he was suggesting. Papyrus. It made sense, really. You and Papyrus have become fast friends, and yes, you did trust him. But you weren’t sure you were ready for the intimacy of Drifting with him.

As much as you denied it, you had demons you had no doubt would surface in the Drift. You didn’t want to burden that sweet cinnamon roll with your troubles. You didn’t want him to see the worst of yourself. 

But... you think you could see who could be another potential candidate. 

You push yourself up to stand, dusting off the back of your shorts. Sans watches you, waiting. His grin looks softer. 

You smile back and hold out your hand to him.

“Would you like to Drift with me, Sans?” 

His gaze snaps back to you with clarity, even though his eyes never left yours. He obviously didn’t expect you to come to this conclusion. 

He stares at you for a moment, and you raise your brow at him, a hint of a challenge in the quirk of your lips. He returns it with a small smirk of his own, and takes your hand. You help him get to his feet.

“Sure thing, MTT.”

 

* * *

  

**+i.**

 

You blink.

Blooky is... hugging you. 

Blooky. Is hugging you. 

 _Blooky_ is hugging you. 

You almost can’t believe it. All this time, you were mourning them, but they were actually alive. Alive and warm and healthy and _alive_. 

Just like the Dreemurrs’ son, Blooky rose up against all odds and found you and Mads again. Bitty was still gone. And so was _Tita_. But Blooky was here. And as bad as it sounded, that was enough.

You could feel your face scrunching up unattractively, tears burning in your eyes as a sob hiccups out of your throat. You could see they’d worn the headphones you’d bought for them. You knew they’d like them. 

You reach up and touch the fabric of their hoodie, soft from how frequently Blooky wore it. You clench your fist, scrunching up the fabric, clutching on for dear life. 

“You’re okay.”

You sob on their shoulder. You weren’t sure which one of you spoke. You didn’t really care. 

They were alive.

“You’re okay.” 

Blooky was alive. 

You had so much to show them, so much to _tell_ them - 

“You’re going to be okay.” 

Blooky was _alive_. 

Blooky - 

\- was gone. 

All your hands could touch is air. Blooky was gone. 

Blooky wasn’t there. They never were. And they never will. You didn’t save them. You _couldn’t_ save them. 

You tilt your hands so your palms faced you. You could still feel the softness of their hoodie. But maybe that was just your blanket.

You turn to your side -

\- the headphones are still on the table, blurry. Oh, you were crying again. 

Numbly, you reach over and bring the headphones closer to your face. The little gray raindrops on the side seem to mock you. 

You close your eyes and press the headphones against your chest again, willing them to take away the ache in your heart. You pretended you were hugging Blooky instead.

It didn’t help.

You hug the headphones tighter. Your pillow was getting wet, but you at least swallow down your sobs. 

Later, with your eyes sore from crying and your chest still hurting, you manage to fall back asleep. The headphones slowly slip off your grasp, bouncing lightly against the bed, before lying coldly on the other side.


End file.
